


cup runneth over

by elibe



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel!Lucius AU, Angst, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, there's non-explicit nsfw towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elibe/pseuds/elibe
Summary: “This — you — are my purpose,” Raven trips over his words. He feels nothing but the blazing heat of the flush that spreads across his skin. “Any other purpose eludes me. I — I am not a man deserving of mercy and grace and yet you have given me both wholeheartedly. You deserve better than this.”“Then what is it that I deserve?” Lucius asks. His voice wavers and he clutches Raven’s hand like a vice.“Love.” He answers breathlessly.





	cup runneth over

**Author's Note:**

> started out as a drabble & ended up at 12k words . im obligated to post this  
alternate universe where lucius is an angel, most everything else is canon-compliant. ridiculously sappy as well.

Raymond has never liked fire. He’d burnt his arm on melting wax when Priscilla had knocked over one of their fancy candelabras from the dining room table. He’d scorched his fingers on fire borne out of curiosity with sticks and grass in their backyard gardens. Raymond knew that he’d never truly hated fire until the embers had branded and cracked his skin when he’d tried to claw his way back into the burning remains of his home on a fruitless search for his parents.

Raymond’s been unconscious for… He isn’t sure how long. Too long, he thinks. He is still warm — it’s not painful, though — in fact, it’s soft and all-encompassing. He feels peaceful; it would be so easy to drift off — to stay in this place… 

Suddenly, Raymond is awoken by the feather-light touch of fingers upon his arm and the white shock of light behind his eyelids. He lurches forward with a gasp, his lungs protesting the sudden intake of air. Shuddering, he coughs and coughs until the remnants of ash and soot expel themselves from his body. 

Blinking, still blinded by that white-hot light, Raymond can make out swaying reeds and a lush, all-consuming green. He is in a field, from what he can tell, at the bank of a gurgling stream. Blades of grass prick at his palms. A soft breeze rustles his hair, swirling around burned and battered skin.

“You’ve come to.” There came a voice, soft and sweet. Raymond is suddenly hyper-aware of the touch, the hand, the _ presence _ against the curve of his shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”

A boy, not much older than himself, is crouched next to him. His skin is bone-white, icy in contrast to the loose ceruclean fabric of his tunic. His body is near unhealthily skinny and his flaxen hair grows past pallid shoulders, matching the tips of the reeds surrounding them. His eyes are the clearest blue that Raymond has ever seen, and he finds himself frozen in their wake.

“Where am I?” Raymond gasps. His voice is brittle and scratchy in his throat, like he’d swallowed gravel. He brings his hands to his eyes to shade himself from the ethereal glow of the sunshine (was the boy _ glowing?) _

“You are safe,” He responds with a voice as sweet as honey and marmalade, tainted with a concerned edge. “But you must rest. You’ve been hurt.”

Raymond glances at his legs, finding them to be riddled with scrapes and burns. His hands are blackened and sting like a thousand bug bites. There’s a stinging pain from the back of his shoulders and across his back. Memories flood his mind like the tides of a broken dam — the smoke, the red-hot licking flames, burning tinder, the hoarse screams ringing in his ears as Raymond scrambled to find an escape from the searing heat — _ where are my parents? _

“Am I dead?” Raymond rasps. His voice breaks off with a wheeze and the blond-haired boy pats his shoulder reassuringly. Raymond studies the perfect curves and angles forming the face of the boy kneeling beside him. His beauty was otherworldly — he was undoubtedly an angel; perhaps a saint, even. 

“Nearly,” the angel whispers. His sapphire-blue eyes are wet with unshed tears. “I will not allow you to pass — The Saint has forbidden it.”

“The Saint? Who would that be?” Raymond fixates on the soft hand still laying upon his arm, it’s an anchor to whatever limbo he was stuck in. His skin radiates warmth and light that was entirely unlike the prickling heat of the burns that litter his back. Raymond has never been this pleasantly warm, he thinks, and so he indulges in it.

Soft tips of long cornsilk hair brush Raymond’s thigh as the other boy bows his head in reverence. “Her Grace, Saint Elimine. She has been watching over you, Raymond.” 

The sway of the reeds pause for just a moment, as if the invocation of Her name is enough to stop time. Raymond’s throat goes dry when the angel says his name aloud. It sounds _ right, _like hearing a word said correctly after mispronouncing it your whole life. He says it with nearly enough reverence as he had the Saint’s.

“Then what are you?” Perhaps his blunt nature is a bit too much, for his companion purses his lips and flinches. His recovery is near instant.

“No-one of importance.” The maybe-angel chuckles. “I serve Her. That is all that matters.” His lips are pulled into a small, mournful smile.

Forcing himself to gaze into the blonde’s eyes rather than the curve of his lip proves to be more difficult than Raymond expects. Everything about the mystery-boy is otherworldly. Raymond finds his form delicate and alluring and _ no, we are not going to follow that train of thought. _

He clears his throat. “Then you are not of this world, I presume? Are you a fae from the stories of olde? An angel?” He is certainly stunning enough to be the stuff of fairy-tales.

The acolyte laughs, and it is a glorious sound, like tinkling bells and the strings of a harpsichord. “I am flattered, truly, but I am not a faerie, nor am I an angel. I… I am not sure what your kind would call me.” 

A gust of wind ruffles Raymond’s auburn hair and tickles his skin. Goosebumps shoot up and down his arms. “Do you have a name, then?”

“Ah, of course. I am Lucius, but it has been a long time since anyone has spoken it aloud.” Lucius breaks eye contact to glance at the earth below them. He worries at the hem of his tunic with slender, graceful fingers. “It can be rather lonely here.”

“Lucius,” Raymond repeats, the syllables heavy on his tongue. “You have a beautiful name.” 

He nearly misses the ruddy blush that spreads across Lucius’ cheeks when he is hit by a sudden, intense wave of nausea. Raymond’s heart thuds in his chest and white dots cloud his vision. The sun doesn’t seem so comforting anymore, in fact, it sears his delicate and burnt skin. It’s like he is back in the crumbling building, grasping at the earth as he tries to crawl away.

“It must be time.” Lucius’ voice is soft and mournful. He clutches Raymond’s hands in an effort to steady him as tremors wrack the latter’s body. “I must let you go, Raymond. You have people waiting for you.”

“My home is gone!” He doubles over. It was getting harder and harder to see now. Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to open his eyes; to get a final look at Lucius’ delicate features and kind round eyes. “My — my parents must be gone! I have nothing now — what _ more _ could the Saint have in store for me?”

“I wish I knew,” The acolyte’s voice is shaking now; hot tears falling upon Raymond’s charred skin. “But you will find a purpose, I swear it to you. If the Saint saw it fit, you would have died here, but She wishes you to return to your station in the mortal world.”

A wordless protest dies on his lips as Raymond watches the unblemished sky fade. Again, he allows himself to let go, and drifts to the realm of the living with Lucius’ chants and prayers gracing his ears a final time.

* * *

Raven could not have avoided the blade if he had tried.

It was calculated swing that Raven had parried far too late, and for that he scolds himself even as he lies bleeding on the muddy soil. _ Oh, well, _ he thinks scornfully. _ I’ve far outlived my welcome. This was bound to happen eventually. _

He curls into the earth and intertwines his fingers over the gash in his stomach. The clash of sword upon armor and shield rings sharply, almost _ mockingly _, in his ears. Every breath the former lord tries to take is ragged and wheezing. His lungs sting with the pain of a thousand needles; he can hear blood thrumming deafeningly in his veins. Thudding footsteps shake the ground, and Raven prays for soft, springy grass and deep blue eyes.

_ “Oh, what have you done to yourself?” _

Raven finds himself encased in a familiar warm aura and he instantly knows where he is. It wraps around him like a security blanket; he can feel the light seep through his skin, into his _ bones _, penetrating the very fabric of his soul.

Lucius hovers above him. His curtain of hair shields the blinding sun from Raven’s eyes. He feels pressure on his side and finds that the other man is pressing both of their hands into the wound in Raven’s abdomen. Despite the gravity of their situation, he can’t help but feel elated at the steady weight of Lucius’ palms.

“Hello.” Raven stutters weakly. His throat is hoarse and even the effort of speaking causes him immeasurable pain.

Lucius has grown since the last time Raven saw him when his home had burned down. His cornsilk hair is even longer now, perhaps long enough to reach the curve of his spine at the middle of his back. He wears the same sky-blue tunic, but this time there is a white shawl draped over his shoulders. His porcelain skin is chiseled and curved along his jaw and cheekbones. Something about him is inhuman — Raven can’t put his finger on it. His skin is too clear and his hair is too soft and his eyes are ringed with gold. A subtle glow cloaks him.

“You were supposed to be careful!” Lucius exclaims, and his voice cracks. “You are too young to die! Perhaps I was able to save you this time and the last, but you _ must _take caution, Raymond!”

“Raven,” the redhead corrects him, punctuating his name with a sharp, painful inhale. “My name is Raven.”

Lucius looks at him quizzically. His grip on Raven’s hands has slackened. “Raven? Like the bird?”

“Yes, like the bird.” Raven snaps, and immediately mumbles an apology under his breath for the bite of his words.

The sting of his wounds has started to fade and he notes that he is no longer bleeding. Perhaps it is the magical properties of this place, this _ in-between _space, or maybe it’s just Lucius.

The latter sighs and sinks back into his heels. He pulls his hands away from Raven’s body and Raven almost feels disappointed, as if something is lacking. The clergyman’s fingers and palms are stained ruddy with Raven’s dried blood. They’re trembling, and if he had the strength, Raven would take them in his own.

“Do not weep over me.” Raven commands. “Please… You have healed me just like you did last time.”

Lucius sniffs and wipes a tear from his face. He leaves a smudge of blood and dirt on his cheek. “But you have hurt yourself again! You are not supposed to die, Ray — Raven, I can feel it, and yet you still have managed to drag yourself back here!”

Raven’s heart swells and bursts in his chest at the sight of Lucius crying — crying over _ him: _sobbing at the mere thought of his demise. The swordsman wants to weep with him, he wants to weep for the pure kindness and light in Lucius’ heart. He wants to weep for his lost home and family and the predicament he’s found himself in. He would weep for the Saint and her insistence on his continued survival.

He cannot find it in himself to cry, so Raven reaches out, and for what exactly, he does not know. Lucius grabs his wrist with one hand and wraps his fingers around Raven’s outstretched palm with the other. He presses it to his forehead with a shaky breath and Raven decides he could probably die happy like this. Lucius’ head is bowed, perhaps to shield his face from Raven, but the reverence and care of the way he clutches his hand makes Raven feel as if he is something holy.

“Forgive me,” Lucius chokes out. “You should not have to see me like this.” 

Raven squeezes his hand in what he hopes is in a reassuring manner. “Lucius, I was bleeding out a few minutes ago. Your hands are covered in my own blood. You held me when I was nearly charred to a crisp — you’ve certainly seen me in worse states.”

Lucius manages a chuckle and it makes Raven’s heart swell with pride and adoration. He realizes that Lucius is the most perfect man he will ever meet, which stabs deeper in his gut than the wrought iron sword had. He’s never been a devout religious man, but in that moment he prays to any god that might be listening that Lucius was real in some capacity and not just a fever dream borne of shock and injury.

_ How can he not be real, though? His skin is too warm and his eyes are too blue and his pulse is too quick. I could never dream up a man quite like this. He’s too _good.

They stay like that for a moment. The grass caresses Raven’s arms and the sunlight turns Lucius’ hair white-gold. Once again, Raven sees the gilded outline of Lucius’ pupils, and his eyes are wet with tears. The moment ends when Raven feels the dreadful, gut-wrenching pain and nausea he had experienced the last time he’d nearly passed. The other man seems to pick up on this immediately, so he grips Raven’s hand tighter. Lucius’ fingernails curl into the mercenary’s palm and Raven finds that he does not mind in the slightest.

“Oh, thank the Saint,” Lucius murmurs. His grip slackens and his shoulders sink as his stress is relieved. “I had thought it to be too late for you.”

The breeze picks up. Raven is finding it harder and harder to move his abdomen, and when he does he is assaulted with stabbing pain along his side where sword had pierced flesh.

“I do not know what to do.” Raven admits. The statement is cryptic and vague but Lucius still seems to get the message. “Where do I go from here?”

“Swear to me that you will keep going until you fulfill your purpose.” Lucius whispers; Raven can feel his lips form the words against his fingers. “Give me your word, Raymond. I — there are people who will learn to care for you in due time, I promise.”

“I give you my word,” he answers breathlessly. Lucius is far too close for Raven to maintain a rational state of mind. He can feel the angel’s breath and chills subsequently run up and down his arms. Raven repeats himself for equal measure. “I swear on it, Lucius.”

Lucius crumples a bit when Raven says his name. His hair falls in cascades over his face and shoulders. Raven thinks he looks like a weeping willow. 

“Thank you.” Lucius murmurs. He hesitates before pressing a kiss to Raven’s knuckles. When he draws back, his face is flushed and his lips are wet.

The hardened mercenary feels his heart break a tiny bit, so he uses his remaining strength to sit up, grunting at the crippling pain to his side. He hesitates before bringing his mouth to Lucius’ own. He tastes like strawberries and sunlight and every part of Raven’s body is electrified by the sensation. He wonders how he’s survived without this feeling, without slender fingers tangling in his hair and eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

And then it is over.

Raven awakens with a start, exclaiming in pain as he instinctively attempts to sit up. He is immediately hit by the lack of Lucius’ calming demeanor and enveloping warmth and feels (not for the first time) like some part of him is missing.

“Lay back down!” A nasally voice yelps. Raven disobeys and swings his head around to catch his bearings.

He is in a well-lit tent, propped up on a cot. Colorful rugs decorate the floor and a table of various ground herbs and ingredients is in the center. Raven also notices clusters of staves leaning against seemingly random parts of the tent.

A young woman stares crossly at Raven from where she sits cross-legged at the table. She has scraggly pink hair tied up in pigtails on either side of her head. Her expression is almost comically annoyed and she looks at Raven as if he were an unwelcome bug flitting around her face.

“You’re really lucky I found you,” she says, as if her presence itself was a gift. “We almost lost you out there! Luckily, the Lady saw you were still breathing and, well, I fixed you all up!”

“_You _didn’t.” Raven mumbles, quiet enough that the shrill cleric could not discern his words.

She walks over to Raven’s side, holding out a bowl of what looks to be poultice. It smells of sulfur and garden greens. “Now that you’re awake, you can apply this yourself. You don’t seem to be the touchy-feely type.”

_ She’s right about that. _ Raven mutters a quick _ thank you _ and busies himself with lifting up hastily-applied bandages to treat his wound. He eyes the poultice suspiciously. 

“I’m Sister Serra, in case you were wondering,” the girl begins. Raven hadn’t been wondering. “We killed those bandits, by the way — the nasty ones who hurt you.”

“That wasn’t necessary.” Raven says.

“I think they deserved it, what with attacking a near-defenseless single man like desperate cowards. It’s not like you had any interesting loot, anyway.” Serra moves to sit on a cushion and crosses her legs over each other.

_ “You went through my belongings?” _ Raven hisses. Serra shrugs, neither confirming nor denying his accusation. Raven huffs under his breath and he begrudgingly notes the immediate numbing effect granted by the poultice. Sister Serra must be more talented than she lets on.

“Ah, Priscilla made that!” Serra says knowingly. “She’s really talented — I’ll have to introduce you two later!”

“Priscilla, you say?” Raven’s stomach lurches and alarm bells ring in his head. _ Damn it to hell. _

“Yes! She can be annoying sometimes, but she’s a great healer. Oh, don’t tell her I said that. She’ll never let me forget it.” Serra babbles on as Raven’s head spins.

Could this be the purpose that Lucius spoke of? Was this mysterious cleric _ the _ Priscilla? Raven had never once thought that he would ever encounter his estranged sister after the fiasco leading to the burning of their shared home. _ She probably doesn’t even remember me. _ Raven thinks in a futile attempt to comfort himself. _ Either that or she hates me. Wouldn’t be the first person to _. Regardless, Raven’s stomach still twists at the idea of seeing her again. 

“...Anyway!” Serra finishes, although Raven had tuned out the rest of her tangent after the mention of Priscilla. “You should rest. That stab wound was _ dreadful _ to treat, so I can only imagine the pain that you’re feeling!” 

Raven snorts and regrets it immediately. Even the simplest of movements makes his stomach explode in ribbons of pain. He curses and clutches at the folds of his tattered sleeves until his knuckles go white and the discomfort subsides.

“Ah, sorry about that!” Serra exclaims and Raven closes his eyes tight to avoid further embarrassment. “You broke a few of my staves with that stab wound of yours! It’s nowhere near as nasty as it was, but it’ll take a little while to heal completely. It’s _ definitely _going to scar, but if you keep applying the poultice and changing your bandages, it won’t be all that bad!”

“Perhaps you should blame the bastard that stabbed me in the first place,” Raven grumbles. “You’ve still neglected to tell me where I am.”

“Oh, right!” Serra scrambles to her feet and claps her hands. “I’ll go request an audience with Lord Eliwood to see how long you can stay with us — unless, of course, you’re looking for coin?”

Raven raises an eyebrow and blinks at the pink-haired healer. Money certainly wouldn’t do him any harm. “It’d seem that your troupe here is in need of mercenary work?”

“Oh, always!” Serra smiles and bounces on her feet. Her hands are pressed together, fingers resting on her chin. “I _ knew _you’d want to join us! That’s what I told the Lords and Lady — you looked like a blade for hire, with your scars and muscles and whatnot.”

“I never said that I wanted to join you.” Raven grumbles, choosing to ignore that last bit of Serra’s exclamation. She is certainly not doing a great job of convincing him to do so. The mentions of _ lords _ and _ ladies _also drove him away from the idea — Raven had had enough of nobles after he renounced his own title.

“Well, you should.” Serra sniffs and crosses her arms. “We’ve been doing _ very _ important work!” The cleric doesn’t bother to specify what that work entails.

Raven briefly mulls the idea through his head. Joining this army would mean he’d have food, income, and a cot to sleep on. There had been mention of a Lord and Lady, however, which slightly turned him off to the idea. He _ was _in debt to them, however, or at least to this Serra character. Even Lucius couldn’t have kept him from dying if Serra hadn’t stumbled across him.

Pressing his fingers to his temples, Raven digs through his memory in an effort to recall mention of a Lord Eliwood from his childhood. His parents had made a valiant effort to get him to memorize the different noble houses, but unfortunately, Raven had not been the best student.

_ Eliwood. Eliwood… Ah. _Raven remembers Elbert and Eleanora of Pherae and word of their newborn son. His mother had gone to visit the couple after Eleanora had given birth. Perhaps Eliwood was their son — his name did match the alliterative nature of Elbert and Eleanora, after all. The House of Pherae had a reputation of finery and class — why would the heir to their fortune be gallivanting across the continent with a ragtag group of mercenaries?

Raven thanks the Saint when he hears an irritated voice calling to Serra from outside the tent. The girl whirls around and yells an aggressive _ I’m coming! _in response. 

“I’d better take my leave.” Serra groans. “Some people, I swear... If I weren’t a holy woman…”

She wiggles her fingers in an odd wave and finally ducks out of the dusty tent. Raven sighs as he shifts positions in favor of leaning his head against the side of the cot.

_ I made a promise. _ He reminds himself. _ It’s the least I can do to fulfill it. _Raven can see the heartbreakingly worried expression Lucius had made when he awoke in the golden fields. He thinks of how their kiss was the softest, most tender thing he could have ever imagined.

Raven thinks about how their time was cut short as he notices the crescent imprints from when Lucius had dug his fingers into the mercenary’s skin.

When he sleeps he dreams of an impossibly bright and blinding orb of light. It has a multitude of flaming blue eyes and pale, feathered wings. Raven can’t move, can’t blink, and is drawn to it like a moth to flame. There’s a whispering voice in his ear — if asked he wouldn’t be able to recall what it said — and Raven tastes fire and warmth. The eyes blink once, twice, three times, and then they are gone. 

Raven sleeps better than he has in years.

* * *

The third time Raven sees Lucius is a year after their previous encounter.

A gruesome strain of the flu had been passed around camp. No-one was quite positive where it had originated, but Raven spitefully believed that he had caught it from Wil, who had vehemently denied his own illness until he could no longer laugh without breaking into hacking coughs. Of course, that was who Raven had been stuck with for the three days he had spent in the sick bay so far.

Serra and Priscilla were doing all they could, but there was only so much that they could change with their healing magic and lack of knowledge about the surprise sickness. It had hit Raven particularly hard since he had foolishly waited to seek treatment until he could not bear it any longer: he’d been avoiding Priscilla and her intrusive questions like the plague. As it turned out, _ Raven _ was the one with the plague, and Priscilla had spared him no mercy from her subsequent teasing.

He’s been wasting away in the now-quarantined healer’s hut for the past couple of days. Raven is unable to eat; he throws up anything that goes past his lips. He’s been informed by a _ very _melodramatic Serra that his fever is dangerously high. He could drink water, but that was barely enough to replace the sustenance that a hearty meal would provide.

The hazy humidity of that evening is what drives Raven over the edge. He feels like he’s drowning in the water-thick air, and the added heat only makes him feel more faint. Meekly, Raven tries to wave Serra over — or even Priscilla, at this point — but to no avail. He can barely think coherently at this point, so Raven decides to succumb to the overwhelming urge to sleep. Perhaps rest really _ is _all he needs...

Raven is back in the amber-lit fields, but this time Lucius is not with him. A jolt of panic immediately courses through his body — Lucius had been there when he’d awoken the last two times — where was he?

Raven finds that he can move with only minimal pain. _ I suppose because I don’t have a massive gash in my side this time, _he thinks, and he slowly gets to his feet

He’s able to see past the waving grasses for the first time, and Raven wishes he’d taken the time to appreciate the view sooner. He remembers the gurgling of a creek and the bright blue sky, but now Raven can see deciduous trees clustered around the edges of the field. Raven wonders if the woods stretch on forever — if Lucius is somewhere Raven has not had the chance to explore.

“Lucius?” Raven calls, and there is a desperate edge to his voice. He holds an arm up to shade his eyes from the beaming sunlight. 

There is a rustling from several yards behind Raven. His heart jumps into his throat when he sees Lucius straining to lift his head above the tall grass from where he sits.

Lucius stands up before Raven reaches him and Raven is able to see things that he’d not previously had the chance to. For one, Lucius is slightly taller than him — it couldn’t have been by more than an inch, but the difference is noticeable, at least to Raven. He can see the entirety of the other man’s body now, and it’s long and graceful and willowy. He’s thin and the fabric of his robes are draped tastefully across his form. 

Raven realizes that the man’s ever-present glow is not a byproduct of the gleaming sunlight. In fact, Lucius seems to radiate it _ himself _ — his hands glow the brightest, and Raven is reminded of the electric energy he felt when the angel had held him.

“I swear that I was careful,” Raven starts when he sees the worry clouding Lucius’ eyes. Stepping forward, he brings his hands up to cup the acolyte’s jaw. “There was a sickness passing around camp and I — well, I suppose I was unlucky.”

Lucius nods. “I believe you,” he assures and Raven can tell that he is being genuine. “You said you were in a camp? That’s good, that you found others.”

“Yes.” Raven croaks. He realizes how much he’s missed this, how he’s missed being with Lucius. Their proximity is extremely close, it makes Raven feel as if he’s looking directly into the sun. It’s blinding, yet alluring; it fills his weak body with divine energy.

The sun fizzles out when Lucius pulls away from him and brings his hand up to his mouth. “You cannot keep coming back here.” He says. His voice is barely audible over the blood pounding in Raven’s ears. “This is not good for either of us… You are going to return back to your life amongst the living and I will be here, and I will not allow you to risk your life for whatever it is that we feel for each other.”

Lucius turns back around and gazes at him so tenderly that Raven can feel his heart melting in his chest. The backlight leaves flecks of gold in his clear blue eyes.

“And what if I do not wish to leave?” Raven rasps, his voice bordering on a whisper.

“My Raven…” Lucius wrings his hands. “I cannot bear the thought of your death. You swore to me that you would find your purpose… You must live. You deserve a future, even if you do not believe so yourself.”

Raven reaches towards him and Lucius takes his hand and presses it to his cheek like he did the last time they saw each other. The ethereal sunlight frames his head like a halo; turns his hair to pure gold drapery. Raven’s mouth goes slack and he resists the urge to run his fingers through it.

“You’ve saved me thrice,” Raven begins, and he brings his thumb along the edge of Lucius’ cheekbone. “You speak of my death as unbearable, but what I cannot bear is you spending another second alone here.”

A breeze ruffles Lucius’ bangs and Raven takes the opportunity to brush them aside with his free hand. He can feel the monk shake underneath his touch.

“This — _ you — _are my purpose,” Raven trips over his words. He feels nothing but the blazing heat of the flush that spreads across his skin. “Any other purpose eludes me. I — I am not a man deserving of mercy and grace and yet you have given me both wholeheartedly. You deserve better than this.”

“Then what is it that I deserve?” Lucius asks. His voice wavers and he clutches Raven’s hand like a vice.

“Love.” He answers breathlessly. 

The heat of the moment is nearly too much and Raven is ready to apologize for his forwardness if the seconds drag out any longer. There is a heartbeat, then another, and Lucius is leaning into him. His lips are even softer than his skin and his warmth is all-encompassing.

They part and Raven is aware of Lucius’ fists clenched into the worn fabric of his overcoat. His face is ruddy and flushed (due to the sunlight or their kiss, Raven can’t decide). Raven allows himself to indulge in this moment; he lets his hands meet the divets of the blonde’s hips. The latter gently tugs on Raven’s collar and he eagerly complies when Lucius pulls him to the grass below.

The realization that Lucius has probably never been this close to another human — well, human_oid — _hits hard when the angel’s skinny arms encircle him. He’s running his fingers along the curve of Raven’s jawline; he lets them brush over the mole on Raven’s neck and the messy, untrimmed strands of hair behind his ears. Lucius could read him like a book, Raven thinks, and tries not to melt in the other’s laser-focused gaze. He can only hope that his gentle kisses to Lucius’ brow are enough to satiate the man.

“You know,” Lucius murmurs. “Birds are travelers. They carry messages from your realm to mine and back again.”

Raven grunts an affirmative after deciding that any words he could think to say would leave his lips incoherently on account of the warm, heavy feeling of Lucius’ hands upon his chest.

“Ravens are all-knowing and wise. They whisper truths in Elimine’s ear. It is said that the Saint loved them so much that She blessed them with all of the light and color She could muster.” He pauses and his fingers curl around Raven’s collar. “That’s why they’re black, you see: they take all of the colors, all of the light, and absorb it into their dark feathers.

“I see them, sometimes,” he continues. Lucius reaches up as if he could pluck a star from the pitch dark, and frankly, Raven wouldn’t be surprised if he could. “There’s not much else around here, but I can see the ravens in the sky and forest.” 

The mercenary pulls Lucius’ outstretched arm down to where their intertwined fingers can rest on the soil. 

“Come back with me.” Raven blurts. The tension in the air is nearly palpable; the yearning in Lucius’ eyes for anything more than this endless golden field makes his heart shatter into tiny pieces.

“I don’t know how.” Lucius turns on his side and tucks his head into the crook of Raven’s neck. Raven thinks it’s perfect how seamlessly they seem to fit together. 

“What of the Saint? Surely She’d allow it.”

Lucius winces. Raven can feel the subsequent sharp intake of breath against his neck. “I’m not sure how these things work… I’ve never heard tell of transcendence between realms outside of holy scripts about the Saint Herself.”

“Well, surely She owes you that, at least!” Raven huffs; Lucius squeezes his hand tighter. “Hell, you’ve been stuck here saving my sorry ass for the past nineteen years! What better way to keep tabs on me than to be with me in person? Not to mention that you deserve better than this. She would be a fool to think otherwise.”

Lucius looks slightly worried at the sacrilegious words flowing from Raven’s lips, so he stops.

“I can try to speak with Her, I suppose. We — we haven’t spoken in a while, though, and surely She has better things to do.”

“Then I will pray to Her every morning and night until the day I die.” Raven swears. He drags his thumb across Lucius’ clavicle, eliciting a shaky sigh. 

“We’ll find a way.” The latter says. It sounds more like a wish than a promise.

Lucius turns his head into Raven’s shoulder. The hazy light above him is getting dimmer and fuzzier as the moments pass. It’s a telltale sign that he was to return to the realm of the living, so Raven shuts his eyes as tight as he can and imagines that they are just two ordinary, regular people; that they’re somewhere safe and happy —

And Raven is awake.

* * *

Raven prays at dawn when the sun rises. He scrapes portions of his meals into the bonfire as hopeful offerings to the Saint. Sometimes he speaks to the birds twittering outside his tent when he is sure that no one can hear him. If Priscilla sees his hands clasped in prayer for the first time since they were children, she does not question him, and for that Raven is grateful. 

At the crack of dawn he leaves his tent after polishing his sword with the whetstone that Bartre had given him in exchange for penmanship lessons. He joins the morning hunts and helps pitch tents whenever their camp moves. He chops firewood and hauls lumber, he carries luggage and drives horse carts. 

Today he’s been tasked with a trip to the nearest village market. The army is low on practical supplies and necessities that Raven has taken for granted until he’d started traveling. Serra had made a fuss about the items missing from her apothecary; she’d even personally made Raven promise he’d find the right herbs and trinkets. Raven doesn’t have the best memory, but he agrees begrudgingly, if only to escape from her scrutinizing stare.

The trek is long but unremarkable; he’d barely broken a sweat by the time they’d reached the village. Wil had been ordered come along with him (Raven couldn’t figure out why. Moral support?) along with Erk, who was notorious as the army’s best heckler.

“Someone’s looking chipper today.” The archer has a teasing lilt to his voice. His boots crunch against the gravelly soil. Wil has neglected to bring his bow with him and is instead toting a woven basket to fill with food and supplies.

“I do _ not _ know what you’re babbling on about.” Raven grumbles, although he can’t stop the flush from creeping up his neck. 

The swordsman got his hopes up every time their troupe passed through a densely populated area. Temples and churches were commonplace in this part of Elibe, and if Lucius were anywhere, he would most certainly be there_ , _Raven was absolutely sure of it. Just the prospect of encountering him on the terrestrial plane was enough to send Raven into fits of stomach-churning excitement and anticipation.

_ Foolish. _Raven steels his nerves and pushes his feelings away. He cannot afford to get his hopes up. There’s an unmistakable burning in his chest, though, something that makes him want to tear apart the city in search for the acolyte.

“Are you sure? I saw you _ smile _earlier today. Maybe you’ve gotten sick again or somethin’.” The knowing drawl in Wil’s voice tells Raven that the younger man is pushing his buttons on purpose.

Raven shot a glare in the direction of the enthusiastic archer. “Were you always this nosy? Did your parents raise you that way, or have you acquired that trait on your own?”

Wil snickers, feigning innocence. “It’s all natural! And _ maybe _ I’d be less nosy if you weren’t so mysterious and all.”

“Forgive me, but will you two be quiet for _ one _moment?” Erk exclaims from ahead. His cape gets caught on his left boot buckle when he kicks his heel into the dirt in frustration. 

Raven concedes with an apologetic grunt. He actually respects Erk, who is a dedicated student and a talented mage. There are no games with Erk — the boy is clear and blunt; concise and uncomplicated. He was also previously employed to Priscilla, Raven’s estranged sister, and had done a decent job of protecting her. Begrudgingly, Raven must admit that the young man was indebted to the Cornwell lineage, if that were any bit worthwhile. If anything, Raven at least owes Erk a favor.

“Say, Erk,” Raven starts after an agonizing internal debate. “Do you know anything of significance about Elibian holy cities?”

He’s not sure why Erk would know, but the scholar was Raven’s best bet for useful information when their solitary companion is Wil. Erk is also pretty bookish, and would prove useful if he knows even the _ tiniest _ bit about the inner workings of the church. 

Erk throws a confused glance over his shoulder but does not ask for any further explanation when he notes Raven’s grimace. “Well, Elibe itself is known for its widespread worship and celebration of Saint Elimine. Her Order is thriving, and only grows larger as our land is torn apart, whether it be from war or not. Mankind needs something to hold onto; something good and moral to believe in while they shed blood and conquer their own.

“I’m sure that you know of the most infamous holy grounds: the city of Aquleia. It is said to be where the Saint ascended into divinity. A tower marks the sacred place, and many tourists visit to pay their respects and ogle at it. Legend has it that it hosts the sacred tome — The Aureola.”

“I’ve heard that any thief who’s tried to steal it has gotten killed on the spot!” Wil exclaims from where he hovers at Raven’s shoulder. “From light magic — instantly activated if you get too close to the Aureola — it’s the real stuff of legends.”

“That is why we must break its seal before we can retrieve it; same as the rest of the divine weapons.” Erk adds. “It would certainly be helpful if we weren’t burnt to a crisp on our honorable quest to save the continent.”

Raven was nauseous. If Aquleia really _ was _ the very spot that Saint Elimine ascended to the heavens _ and _if the tower also contained the holy tome Aureola, could it be possible for someone to descend from heaven to earth through the same method?

They’ve gotten a lot closer to their destination — the thickets are clearing and the trees are growing farther and farther apart. He can make out thatched roofs and cobblestone chimneys peeking in-between branches and leaves.

“Is there any reason why you ask?” Erk finishes. “I’m sure I could find out more if you pointed me in the right direction.”

_ Ah. _Erk is a smart man, Raven thinks, and any smart man would suspect the innate vagueness of his question. Nobody needed to know about his fever dreams and superstitions — it isn’t like Erk would believe him, anyway.

“I’m quite all right.” Raven snaps. “Let’s just get what we need and return to camp.”

Erk acknowledges that with a hum, and the trio is quiet until they reach their destination.

The city is charming: built of sandy brick and pinewood, paved with cobblestone. The odd yellow-orange banner hangs across alleyways along with wind chimes and tinkling ornaments painted gold and garnet.

Raven turns a corner into a wide, packed street. The brick pathway is engraved with swirls of yellow and bronze that trace the ground like odd, gilded maps. In a heartbeat, Raven is instantly blinded by the sunlight bouncing off of one of the tendrils of gold. He hisses in surprise and pain and mutters a hasty apology to the man he’d bumped into. The tug in his gut becomes unsuppressable, wrenching his stomach like a vice. 

“Erk, Wil,” Raven starts. “We’ll reconvene at the trail by noon. Do _ not _ waste any of our coin, Wil — I am _ not _ in the mood for an earful from our tactician.”

As Raven turns heel, Wil chirps an enthusiastic _ yes, sir! _ and scampers to Erik’s side. The young archer was nothing short of a nuisance (and _ way _ too clingy for Raven’s liking) but was well-meaning and didn’t ask too many questions. The mage, however, shoots Raven a suspicious glare which he returns with practiced flourish. Erk purses his lips and departs without a further word.

As his companions leave, Raven is hit by an urge like a blow to his stomach. _ Follow it. You have to follow it. _Every primal instinct in Raven’s body is screaming at him to track the glowing trail. Something animalistic throws him into a subdued sprint and sends him pushing through the throngs of merchants and civilians. 

Raven is breathless by the time he reaches his destination. The tendrils have lead him to a colossal, beautiful building. It’s made entirely of white marble and is gilded like the brick road below him. Two massive columns flank the impressive double doors, their tops carved into delicate niches and patterns. The most extraordinary pieces of all are the stained glass windows, which had to be at least twice Raven’s height. 

The windows are adorned with depictions of different holy stories and folk tales. They seem to follow a narration, from what Raven can remember from the last time he had read any holy texts. Glimmering scenes of Saint Elimine shining Her light from the heavens, conversing with mortals, kneeling and cupping their faces. There are panels of her dancing among her acolytes and congregating with the masses. A particularly striking one shows Her holding a chalice overflowing with a ruby red liquid. No matter the artwork, there is always the omnipresent flowing, golden hair of the Saint and Her disciples. Raven finds that his prior nausea has returned.

“Excuse me?”

Raven whirls around in abject surprise. In front of him is a woman not much older than he is. She is decked in white robes with a single blue scarf thrown over her shoulders. He’s seen this before — it was near identical to what Serra wore (without the garish embezzlements) — she must be a cleric.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?” The woman asks politely. Her hands are clasped in front of her stomach and her posture is stiff but neat. Auburn hair peeks out from where it is wrapped up in a headband.

“No, thank you.” Raven mumbles. He turns on his heel and braces himself on one of the polished quartz columns. He really hoped that the disappointment in his voice was not apparent to the young woman— it was ridiculous to even _ wonder _ —

_ I’ve had a ridiculous few years. _Raven decides. With a resigned (and hopefully neutral) expression, the auburn-haired man turns heel once more.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me.”

The cleric raises her eyebrows, her face lit up with interest. “Ah, fantastic! Let me know how I may assist you, sir!”

_ You mustn’t get many visitors here. _“Have you, by any chance, seen a certain monk around these parts? He has long, blond hair and a wiry stature.”

The woman shakes her head solemnly and looks truly upset, as if she’d failed Raven on a personal level. “I’m afraid not. I am very sorry that I cannot be of any help.”

Raven pinches the base of his nose. _ There’s no use in being angry with her. She wouldn’t know to look out for Lucius, anyway. _ His hand falls to his side. _ Ah. _

“Will you do me a favor and look out for him?” Raven asks. “I’d appreciate it a great deal.”

The cleric instantly brightens up again. “Absolutely! I can certainly do that! Although, I’ve only been in town since sunrise. I’ve stopped here while on my way to visit the sacred temple. It’s quite possible that I haven’t had the chance to encounter him yet.” She wrings her hands for a brief moment and then looks sheepishly up at Raven. “Is… Is there any reason why you wish to contact this man?”

Raven hopes to the gods that she thinks his ruddy complexion to be the product of the heat of noon. “He — he’s an old friend. If you do see him, tell him that we’re camped out a few miles north of here.”

“And who shall I say the message is from?”

He pauses. “Raven.”

The cleric nods and waves goodbye. She skips down the steps and begins to make her way through the busy streets. Raven is left standing at the entrance of the… Temple? Library? He isn’t sure. It was certainly big enough to house both. Mournfully, he glances at the stained glass art, shining with vibrant color in the sunlight. Against his better judgement, Raven makes a decision that Erk would admonish him for. Instead of gathering the needed supplies (and fully expecting an earful from Serra), he pushes through the double doors and enters the extravagant building.

Expectedly, it's every bit as beautiful as its outside. Raven steps into an atrium with a ceiling which is at least two stories high, supported with polished stone pillars. A grand staircase ribbons across the wall and leads to the second floor adorned with an ornately carved balustrade. Orange and yellow flowers dot the railings, overflowing from baskets of greenery. It reminds Raven too much of his burnt home.

There are a handful of people clustered in groups, chatting about who-knows-what. _ What does one gossip about in a church? _Raven purposefully avoided eye contact with any of them. He was already a hair's-width close to turning around and leaving his seemingly fruitless quest.

He crosses the atrium and heads towards a large, wooden pair of double doors. A plaque on the wall beside it reads _ Library _in bold text. Raven opens the doors slowly, lest they creak and alert any to his presence.

Raven is pleasantly surprised to see that the library has far fewer people than the previous room. The walls, still very tall, were lined with alcoves and shelves of books. It seemed that the library did not exclusively host holy texts, or at least Raven didn’t think there could be _ that many _of them. Again, an unwelcome pang in his gut reminds him of the Cornwell library (which had, albeit, been much smaller). It had been the first and quickest to burn. Raven grits his teeth and drags himself back into the present, ember and soot pushed back into the depths of his mind.

The shelves in the center of the room are labelled by subject and alphabetical order. Raven’s suspicions are confirmed; there is a wide variety of books, most not related to the Eliminian faith. The shelves are crafted of dark and polished mahogany wood. It is evident that someone put a great deal of care into building this place. 

Not wanting to seem like he was loitering, Raven picked an aisle and vanished into the books. A last-minute glance at the label informed him that he was heading into the _ Architecture and Agriculture _ section, which sounded _ exhilarating. _

“What in the _ hells _ am I doing?” Raven winces and runs a hand through his hair. _ Foolish! Always so foolish. _He huffs and starts to take a hasty retreat out of the dusty library, scorning himself for his reckless behavior. Erk would certainly not pass up this opportunity to be smug. Why had he let himself indulge in such a ridiculous pipe dream?

_ “Raven?” _

The mercenary whirls around, his stomach churning. _ It can’t be. _His pure shock betrays his normally cool exterior and he finds himself staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the figure behind him.

There he was, silky hair and willowy frame, adorned with blue monk’s robes. Nothing could have prepared Raven for the jolt that coursed through his body the moment he laid eyes on Lucius. He could _ see _him; touch him, feel him, kiss him —

“Oh — there’s no need for tears!” Lucius steps towards him and Raven can feel himself being drawn forward to the other man. “Don’t fret! I am well, Raven, you’ve no reason to weep over me.”

Raven hadn’t even realized he was crying until Lucius had pointed it out. His base instincts urge him to run or hide or somehow stop his tears — vulnerability is weakness, and Raven can’t afford to be weak. However, another part of him is okay with this; Lucius seeing him cry. Raven feels like he could bare himself fully, ugly emotions and all, to the monk and it would make no difference. Lucius would not turn him away or scorn him.

Hesitantly, Lucius steps forward once more. He brings his hands up to Raven’s face and thumbs away his tears. Raven lays his palms over Lucius’ own. _ He’s just as warm as I remember. _

“I heard you — through the birds, I mean.” Lucius’ voice is nearly a whisper. “You spoke with them. They’re messengers; I’m glad you remembered.”

_ Of course I remembered. _After a moment Raven tilts his head, entrusting it with Lucius’ left hand, and wipes away the last of the dampness away from his eyes. “How — how the hell did you get here?”

Lucius laughs like he’s just as pleasantly dumbfounded as Raven and pulls him away from the double doors by his wrist. “It’s like you said: the Saint must have noticed mine, or even _ your _ prayers. After I’d awoken, I found myself in a monastery a few weeks ago. They took me in; fed and clothed me. I heard tell of this city — and I don’t know why — I felt I needed to be here.”

Raven nods, thinking of the inexplicable wrench in his gut when he’d been led to this building by the gilded outlines in the pavement. “I can’t _ believe _this… Just…” Raven’s face is plastered with what he could only assume was an elated and goofy grin. “Fuck, it’s good to see you.”

Lucius giggles under his breath (_ gods _what a perfect sound). “I doubt I can say expletives on holy grounds, but I am inclined to agree.”

Raven snorts and glances down at his muddied boots. The room is spinning and Lucius is the only thing keeping him anchored. A billion thoughts are racing through his mind. It’s hard to pinpoint them individually, so he lets a culmination of his ruminating thinking spill forth from his lips.

“What do we do now?”

The space between them is stifling — unresolved tension, yearning, anticipation, and some kind of quiet fear capable of uprooting them. Lucius feels it, too, Raven can tell. 

“I do not know.” The blonde admits almost sheepishly. There’s a flush to his cheeks that would have gone unnoticed if Raven hadn’t been as close as he is. “What… What do you think should happen next?” His voice trails off as it loses pitch.

At this point, Lucius and Raven’s fingers are intertwined and clasped together. He can feel Lucius’ heartbeat from where their fists clench over his heart. It’s _ real _ : totally and _ completely real. _He smells like lavender and myrrh; Raven wonders if his lips are as soft as his porcelain skin.

“I want to kiss you.” The mercenary’s hands are shaking and his he can feel his heart attempting to escape the confines of his ribcage; he dares not move until Lucius answers, until he says it’s okay.

“Please.” His voice is hoarse. Raven thinks he has never felt so alive. The monk’s eyelashes flutter when Raven leans into their kiss. 

Raven has kissed other men before. He’d taken a few to bed before he’d joined Eliwood’s brigade. He had been an angsty, confused, broken boy; barely an adult for all intents and purposes. It had meant nothing — just another way to distract from his inner turmoil. Nothing compared to _ this — _his soul could be being pulled out of his body and Raven wouldn’t be surprised. Lucius was literally something out of heaven, which was evident from the way he reciprocated Raven’s affections with such devotion and care.

It’s over as soon as it had begun when Lucius lets out a gasp. _ Damn it, did I do something wrong? _Raven is already admonishing himself before he catches where Lucius’ gaze falls over his shoulder. He swings his head around: the woman from earlier, who Raven had asked to find Lucius, is halted mid-step, clutching a precariously stacked pile of books with both of her hands.

“I see you’ve found him!” The woman says. She looks embarrassed, perhaps slightly guilty, but also extremely uncomfortable. Maybe Raven would have been, too, if he were a good Eliminian patron who’d stumbled across a pair of men kissing on his holy grounds.

“Are you finished?” Raven hisses and shoots her a pointed glare. He doesn’t let go of Lucius’ hands, he’d waited far too long to let his love go.

“Ah — of course.” She strides away with far too much hastiness, nearly dropping her stack of writings (perhaps they’d been from the _ Architecture and Agriculture _section).

Raven’s partner has gone paler than usual, his lips parted in a small _ O. _Raven notes that his breath has gone staggered and shaky.

“Are you alright?” Raven mumbles. He’s never been the best at comforting people, but for Lucius, he could try.

“Y-yes. Sorry.” Lucius purposely avoids Raven’s searching gaze and purses his lips.

“No, you’re clearly not.” Raven grumbles and guides Lucius back into one of the book aisles. “Listen — I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable, so don’t go around masking your emotions for my sake.”

Lucius nods, and Raven is relieved when he sees his shoulders slacken. “Let us find somewhere quiet, Raven. We have a lot to catch up on and I would love to hear of your adventures from after I arrived here.”

The auburn-haired man snorts. “Adventures, huh? I’ve hardly been on any of those. The only reason I came to town was because our cleric threatened me if I didn’t bring her supplies for the apothecary.”

Lucius pauses as if he is trying to figure out whether to laugh or not. “It’s all in jest, Lucius. She enjoys toying with me.” Raven reassures.

The monk manages a snicker. “Then we should fetch her supplies, no?”

Raven smiles (it’s nothing special, just a quirking if his lips. He hopes Lucius can tell that he’s happy even though his facial expressions can be hard to read). “I suppose so.”

What Raven _ wanted _to do was kiss Lucius senseless in the library, to play with his hair, to hear him speak with that soft and tender voice. He wanted to tell Lucius about his day a thousand times over, he wanted to hold his hand, to take Lucius to all the places he hadn’t gotten to see due to his time in the ethereal fields of gold.

But this? This was good. This was everything.

Lucius rubs a hand through Raven’s hair to smooth where he’d clutched at it before the cleric had caught them. They leave the library with hands clasped and faces flushed scarlet, they leave with fingers twined together like the vines swirling along the balcony railings. Raven nearly bumps headfirst into someone when he pushes the great doors open with his free hand. Lucius begins to apologize before Raven cuts him off with a groaned line of expletives.

“What the _ fuck, _Raven.”

A certain purple-haired mage is glaring up at him, arms crossed and outfit disheveled. He’s clutching a knitted satchel (presumably filled with his finds from the market) in one hand, the other is curled into a fist at his side.

“_Godsdammit.” _The mercenary drops Lucius’ hand (with much regret) and cups his face in his palms. The sun had risen when he kissed Lucius and is now scorching his cheeks at the embarrassment that Erk is sure to subject him to.

Amazingly, it gets worse.

Wil nearly drops his basket from where he stands behind Erik’s short frame. His face is pulled into a comical grin and the archer is clearly using his entire effort to hold back his laughter. "Holy Hell! Oh, Erk, the mean old bird is gonna kill us!"

Raven grinds his teeth, closes his eyes, and breathes deeply. Finding he could offer no adequate explanation, the mercenary stays quiet for once, and basks in the hazy glow of his own shame.  


* * *

One embarrassing talk with Eliwood later, Raven is introducing Lucius to the lord. 

They’ve met in their tactician’s tent, as they usually do for battle and strategy planning, where Eliwood waits for them. He’s sporting his usual decorum, spare for the sword he usually keeps strapped to his belt. Eliwood was the poster boy of every bit of regality that had been expected of Raven — Eliwood was a good man, though — he’d make a fine marquess one day, even Raven had to admit it. The red-haired lord stands and smiles when the pair enter the tent, Raven holding the tent flap open for Lucius.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Eliwood!” The latter exclaims. He bows and grasps Eliwood’s hand when it is offered to him.

“The pleasure all is mine.” Eliwood returns the handshake with vigor. “I hear you’re interested in joining us?”

Lucius wrings his wrists. The lanterns cast golden light against the orange fabric of the tent and Lucius regains his ethereal glow. His hair shines flaxen from where Raven stands behind him. “Yes, I think I can be of use to you. I can heal the wounded and I am also proficient in light magic. I- I truly hope to provide something for your cause.”

Eliwood chuckles. “You’re certainly a humble man. I trust you’ll fit in well around here. We’d be honored to have you.” He shoots a glance at Raven, a knowing glimmer in his eye. “If you can charm our stalwart Raven here, you’ll surely get along splendidly with the rest of us.”

Raven lets out an audible groan while Lucius stifles a chuckle. The monk clasps his hands and bows once more. “Thank you, milord, I’m honored to join you, as well.” He steps back to Raven’s side and gives him the most radiant, _ stunning _ smile he’s ever seen, their future secured (at least for now). In a moment of weakness (and who could blame him, really?) Raven leans up to kiss Lucius’ forehead, forgetting their current predicament in account of how utterly _ enamored _he’s feeling.

Eliwood clears his throat from behind the pair, and Raven’s heart trips and falls against his ribs. The lord, albeit a bit flushed, has a knowing expression. “You can count on my discretion, Raven; Lucius.”

“Thank you, Lord Eliwood,” Lucius responds ever so politely, even while facing a potentially mortifying situation. “Have a good evening.”

They leave Eliwood with the orange lantern-light and the flapping of the tent drapes. The dimming sunlight casts long shadows across the campgrounds, and if Raven wrapped an arm around Lucius’ waist and Lucius pressed a kiss to his cheek, the darkness was their only witness. 

That night, they hold each other so tenderly Raven fears his heart might combust. Lucius runs deft fingers through Raven’s hair when he presses kisses to his throat, when he helps shrug off his azure robes, when he smiles (truly, _ genuinely _ smiles) against his lover’s uncloaked skin. He breathes in tandem with Lucius and kisses the tresses of his locks. Lucius coaxes Raven up to meet his lips once more and it’s so, _ so _sweet. They move unhurriedly for the first time since they had met, and Raven feels as if he’s finally done something worthwhile. When he can’t bear it anymore, Raven leans back for a gasp of air and cups Lucius’ jaw in his palms.

“Hey,” he says, nearly breathless. The monk’s eyes are no longer ringed with gold, instead, they’re endlessly deep and cobalt blue. They sparkle with something akin to mischief.

“Mhmm,” Lucius responds incoherently. “What is it?” His fingers trail the length of Raven’s jaw.

It’s daunting, Raven realizes, the length that he’s fully bared himself to this man. Receiving affection… Is not something Raven is accustomed to. It’s wonderful and heart-wrenching, of course, but it’s something that’s been foreign to him for years. This must be evident on his face, because Lucius scoots up on his elbows and lets Raven rest his head against his chest.

“Are you okay?” He asks tentatively, running a hand through auburn hair.

“Yes,” Raven’s answer is truthful. “I am… I am not used to this.”

“Neither am I,” Lucius murmurs in agreement. “Are you uncomfortable? Or — "

“No, no,” Raven reassures him. “I just — I do not want to mess this up.”

Lucius hums in sympathy and halts the hand that had been carding through his hair. It’s warm and comforting against his scalp. “You won’t,” he reassures. “By the Saint, it’s not like _ I’ve _ ever been with anyone before.”

“Well, you’re doing considerably well.” Raven can feel the laughter bubbling in Lucius’ chest. 

A moment passes before Raven lays another kiss on Lucius’ mouth. “I’d always thought I’d be married off to some noblewoman in a foreign city,” he murmurs. “I’d be a lordling until the day of my death, probably stuck in some stuffy estate. I never wanted that, of course but… This fate is certainly different. Perhaps the exact opposite than what was expected of me, in fact.”

“I doubt young Lord Raymond ever thought he’d find himself a travelling swordsman bedding a newly-mortal Eliminian monk.”

Raven’s face flushes cherry-red and buries it in the crook of Lucius’ neck. “Must you be so forward?” Regardless, he presses his lips to Lucius’ collarbone in a gesture meant to convey the jest in his wisecrack. He kisses up the length of Lucius’ neck and his monk reciprocates with enthusiasm. Graceful fingers are unfastening the buttons on Raven’s collar and his stomach lurches whenever Lucius brushes against bare skin on his neck.

He curses (to Lucius’ amusement) as he fumbles his way through an attempt to relieve the monk of his undershirt. With some assistance Raven is able to guide it over Lucius’ shoulders and discard it to the far corner of their tent. 

“You’re staring, Raven.” Lucius makes an attempt to sound snide and utterly fails when Raven’s hands graze over his hips.

“S’okay?” Raven mumbles.

“Very,” Lucius whispers, kisses Raven with a newfound heat. Lucius breaks away with a gasp when Raven’s hand brushes past a particular spot on his hip. Always a pleaser, Raven repeats the motion, and Lucius makes an unintelligible noise under his breath.

His heart swells with adoration, and Raven has to accept that, _ yes, _ he is a _ huge _sap, and Lucius certainly isn’t helping to amend that in any way. It’s almost sickeningly sweet: Lucius grasping one of Raven’s hands while the other plays absentmindedly with his partner’s hair. Raven is just improvising at this point, honestly. He makes note of what made Lucius’ voice hitch in his throat and clutch his hand tighter when he brushes lips upon pale, sensitive skin.

Raven is near useless by the time he’s finished trailing his lips along the line from Lucius’ collarbone to his navel; he’s somehow managed to get his own shirt halfway unbuttoned and one arm free of a sleeve cast hastily over his shoulder. He might’ve laughed at that, if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. 

Lucius tugs him back up by the hand he’s holding. “Unfair,” he mumbles and turns his shaky hands to the remaining clasps on Raven’s jacket. He laughs and helps the blonde tug at the buttons and wrestles his arm out of its sleeve. Lucius turns to make work of of Raven’s undershirt and the latter is _ more _ than willing to help him pull it over his head. He hums into Lucius, hums as he kisses Lucius’ nose and cheeks. The latter presses his palms into Raven’s bare shoulders and stops, suddenly, letting them rest just above his biceps.

_ Ah. _Lucius had reached the scars that were the parting gift his once-home had given him. They curled across Raven’s back and across the recesses of his shoulders. They’d been long healed, but their existence in itself meant that Raven could never truly shake the loss and turmoil of his past, no matter how far he ran from it.

“Apologies, I forgot — ”

“Hush,” Lucius holds out his arms and Raven falls into them; he’s home, he can feel it in the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “You’ve no need to be ashamed of them. I wanted to make sure you were comfortable with me touching them.”

For all of his worldliness and the strenuous amount of work he’d put into his indifferent façade, Raven had never quite managed to hide how easily flustered he could get. “Gods, are you _ trying _to kill me?”

"I would never." Lucius gently guides him so that their positions are reversed, his lithe body balanced over Raven’s own. Lucius finds the scar on his side (from the nasty stab wound Lucius _ himself _had healed) and traces it with his thumb.

“Come on, you tease.” Raven grunts as he sits himself up and threads his fingers through straw-colored hair. “You’re too dashing for your own good, you know?” Lucius only giggles before he kisses him with a surprising amount of vigor.

They move quickly from there on out; their kisses get longer and more passionate as time passes. In between gasps, Lucius taps his fingers on Raven’s shoulders. “The light, Raven.” His voice is hoarse and shaky and _ holy shit _ Raven is going to go mad.

“I’ve got it,” Raven affirms and leans over to dim the fire of his lantern; he makes sure to quell the flames only enough so they can still see each other in the dim, hazy light. There was no need for bypassers to see their incriminating silhouettes. 

Once more, Raven’s mouth is on Lucius’ sternum and his hands are on Lucius’ hips. They are curved gracefully and the near-erotic groans that flew flow Lucius’ mouth while he pets them are motivation enough to continue. He dares let his hands lower further (slowly, in case Lucius might object).

“May I move you, Lucius?”

“Yes, yes of course.” 

Raven gathers Lucius’ wiry frame into his arms and reverses their positions once more. It’s awkward and messy while they try to find their places, but Raven would never trade it for anything. Their kiss is desperate and wanton. 

A wordless sob spills from Lucius’ lips when Raven takes him in his hand.

The swordsman prepares him with small ministrations and leftover vulnary found in the pocket of his long-discarded jacket. Lucius’ legs are shuddering so Raven presses soft kisses to the inside of his thighs. “R-Raven,” he warns, tugging at his hair.

“Alright,” he concedes, his voice coming out gruffer than he intended with his labored breathing and thudding heartbeat. They hold each other and Raven moves slowly and gently as to not hurt the man underneath him.

“Please do not worry,” Lucius reassures him with a small smile. “I trust you.”

“I trust you, too.” Raven says. His voice is strained with the effort to keep talking while they’re like _ this — _he knows Lucius feels the same when slender hands grip his back a little too hard.

Lucius wraps his legs around Raven’s torso. His hands find purchase in auburn hair. Raven cradles him close to his chest and kisses him like a starving man. The heat of the monks body against his is far too much for him to take and it’s over sooner than either of them can predict.

When Raven moves back to Lucius’ side, vision fuzzy with pleasure and exhaustion, the monk is wiping sweat from his brow with one of their discarded articles of clothing. He curls back into the sheets and rests on his side so that their eyes can meet.

“Sleep,” Lucius says; Raven isn’t sure if it’s a request or a command. Regardless, he is inclined to agree and shifts so that his partner can lean into his side.

“Eliwood will never let me live that down.” Raven mumbles in a futile attempt to keep himself from dozing off.

“And what makes you think that _I_ will?” Lucius snorts and pokes at his chest. “You’re a softie, Raven, even though you refuse to admit it.”

“Only for you, I suppose.”

For the first time, truly, Raven is home. His home is not the Cornwell manor or the length of his tent or the scars on his back. Home is with Lucius no matter where they decide travel from here on out. For once, the ever-present fire lurking in the depths of his thoughts is extinguished, if only momentarily, and Raven thinks that this could be the start of something new.

He’s more than ready for it.  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope you like this i spent way too much time on it  
title is from the song 'pulaski at night' by andrew bird (also a bible verse, but it's from the song in this case). i also listened to 'the predatory wasp of the palisades is out to get us' by sufjan stevens and 'raven's song' by aaron embry while writing this


End file.
